


Gentlemen of Quality

by i_claudia



Series: Gentlemen of Quality [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-30
Updated: 2009-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t appreciate my natural-born talent,” Arthur said mournfully. “I suppose I will just have to remind you of how spectacular I really am.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentlemen of Quality

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the kinkmeme and posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/31799.html?#cutid1). (30 September 2009)

“Arthur,” Merlin hissed, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. “Arthur, be quiet! You’re going to get us thrown out!”

Arthur gave him a stern look. “Merlin,” he said, speaking with the slow, measured tones of the very drunk, “we are in the _Pendragon_ box. They _can’t_ throw us out, my father practically funded the entire rebuilding after the fire. Besides,” he went on, happily turning back to face the stage, “no one’s tragically pale and dying of consumption in this one; it’s practically a comedy. I can sing if I want to.”

“A comedy where they all die in the end,” Merlin predicted darkly, but he couldn’t quite bite back the grin spreading over his face. Arthur, sprawled across the red velvet of the seat, would have been a picture of dapper elegance in his black jacket and waistcoat, except that his white cravat was coming undone and his hair was in utter chaos from where he’d been pulling at it through the entire first act. It made something in Merlin’s chest do uncomfortably strange things, and Merlin wasn’t quite drunk enough to blame the gin entirely.

“Look,” Arthur said, grabbing Merlin’s wrist and pulling him closer, pointing at the stage. Merlin let him, because at least he’d stopped singing along. “There he is, alone with his lady at long last, and what does he do? He leaves to go rescue his mates and die some sort of disgusting heroic death. I’m telling you, something is wrong with him. He’s completely mad.”

“So you keep telling me,” Merlin said dryly, using the opportunity to grab his silver flask back from Arthur again and take a gulp. “I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it, as the whole bloody thing is in French.”

“Of course it is,” Arthur told him, offended and unbearably posh. “It’s an opera, it can’t be in _English_.”

“There are English operas,” Merlin protested, but then Arthur stole the flask and the conversation devolved into a furious, silent fight over who would have the last swallow of gin.

Arthur won, of course, and Merlin slumped back and scowled at him.

“You are a cruel man,” Merlin informed him. “I hope you are eaten alive by beetles.”

Arthur threw back his head and laughed, drawing more glares and increasingly less-hushed whispers from the ladies in the box next to them. Merlin slouched lower, and hoped they'd be too distracted by Arthur to notice him. “Beetles?” Arthur asked. “I think you’ll be hard-pressed to find flesh-eating beetles in London.”

“That’s why I’m shipping you to India. In a box with no air holes in it.”

“You’d never do that,” Arthur said, leaning in and suddenly far, far too close for Merlin’s peace of mind. “I give it a week before you’d come after me and track me down.”

“And why would I do that?” Merlin asked lightly, fighting to control his breathing and sliding his hands beneath his legs so he wouldn’t do anything stupid like grab Arthur’s ridiculous hair and pull him closer.

“You’d miss my moustache,” Arthur said smugly. “And my singing.”

“I would not,” Merlin said. “In fact I hope your moustache is the first thing the beetles eat; it is atrocious.”

Arthur looked wounded, but only for a moment. “Aha!” he said triumphantly, wagging a finger in Merlin’s face. “You didn’t say anything about my singing,” he announced. “I knew you loved it!”

“I didn’t – that’s not true!” Merlin sputtered, but Arthur ignored him, leaning precariously over the railing of their box again and throwing out his arms expansively.

“ _Ah, che bel vivere_ ,” he caroled down to the audience below, horribly, irredeemably off-key. “ _Che bel piacere per un barbiere di qualità_!”

“That’s not even from this opera!” Merlin whispered furiously, trying to drag Arthur back from certain death, to get a hand over Arthur’s mouth to stifle him. He looked over to see that the ladies in the next box were muttering to each other in clear disapproval.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about opera,” said Arthur with a wicked smile, easily trapping Merlin’s hand with his own. Merlin glared at him. “You haven’t even let me get to the best part yet,” Arthur complained.

“Why, so you can yell ‘Figaro, Figaro, Figaro’ out to the whole theatre?” Merlin asked, twisting his hand in an attempt to free it. Arthur held fast, linking their fingers together.

“You don’t appreciate my natural-born talent,” he said mournfully. “I suppose I will just have to remind you of how spectacular I really am.”

Merlin eyed him suspiciously. “Is this the kind of reminder which will land you on the front of the society pages? Again?”

“That was only once,” Arthur objected, “and it didn’t even mention the good bits, just the boring part about climbing the statue in Vauxhall.”

“Nude,” Merlin reminded him, but Arthur waved the detail off.

“Stop distracting me,” he said firmly, wrapping the chain of Merlin’s pocket watch around his free hand and pulling, tugging Merlin off-balance.

Merlin made a wild grab at the back of his chair and missed, ending up half-sprawled across the armrests of their chairs and onto Arthur’s chest, his legs tangled under him. “Arthur,” he started, scolding, but Arthur hummed and pressed his mouth to Merlin’s forehead, and Merlin’s breath hitched. Arthur was warm and familiar against him, and Merlin could feel his furious heartbeat, could smell the pomade he used and the faint sweet odour of pipe smoke. He dipped his head down into the corner of Arthur’s neck and shoulder, breathed it all in deep, forgetting everything but the encircling warmth of Arthur’s presence.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice low, husky from desire and gin, rubbing his cheek against Merlin’s muttonchops in a thoroughly inappropriate way. He let go of Merlin’s fingers and slid his hand around Merlin’s back, pressing him closer, his intention clear. Merlin brushed a soft kiss against Arthur’s jaw, shifting around until the armrest stopped digging into his liver and he could bring Arthur’s mouth into range.

“I’ve been wanting this all night,” Arthur murmured, pulling Merlin farther into his lap. “From the moment you stepped out of that carriage, I wanted you; wanted to strip you out of these clothes piece by piece – hell, Merlin, you’ve no idea how good you look in evening dress.”

Merlin was murmuring his agreement, reaching for Arthur’s cravat, when the soprano hit a sudden high note, startling him back into noticing his surroundings, and all the reasons why this was a terrible idea came back to him in a rush. _Jesus_ , he thought in horror, he was hard and practically rutting against Arthur in public, at the _opera_ , where any nosy busybody could look over at them with their stupid opera glasses and unleash a horrific scandal...

“Arthur, stop,” he said, panicking, but Arthur only hummed again and pulled him closer, slipping two fingers under the band of Merlin’s trousers.

“Not here, God, are you insane?” He tried to squirm his way off of Arthur but stopped almost immediately, letting out a soft cry of frustration – squirming only made his problem worse.

“Why not here?” Arthur asked, his hand still firm against Merlin’s lower back. “No one’s looking at us.”

“They will,” Merlin argued, furious. “Why don’t we just take ourselves to Calcraft now and save the police the trouble of having to arrest us and give us a trial?” He managed to wriggle a hand between them and gave a hard push at Arthur’s stomach, driving the wind out of Arthur and toppling himself over, banging his head on the railing of the box as he went down.

“Ow,” he said, anger giving way to petulance. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Arthur slid off of the chair onto his knees on the soft carpeting, crawling forward between Merlin’s legs to trap Merlin against the wall of the box. “Stop complaining, you probably won’t even have a lump from that. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice and wiggling his eyebrows in a way that should have been ludicrous but was instead disturbingly arousing, “now we don’t have to worry about being seen.”

“You are not right in the head,” Merlin informed him, but Arthur ignored him. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Ours not to reason why,” Arthur purred, crowding closer. “Ours but to do and die...”

“Mangling Tennyson is not the way to win me over,” Merlin warned. Arthur just wiggled his eyebrows again, running the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

“Just think,” he said, “all those people out there, and they have no idea that the _real_ show is right here.”

“God,” Merlin realized, trying not to dissolve into helpless, frantic giggling, because the whole situation was insane; Arthur was insane and dragging Merlin down into insanity with him. “You’re an insatiable pervert, aren’t you?”

“Only for you,” Arthur said, reaching forward to palm Merlin through the stiff broadcloth of his trousers. Merlin jerked back and banged his head against the wall again, biting his lip hard to keep from moaning.

Arthur smirked and worked open the fastenings on Merlin’s trousers, un-tucking Merlin’s shirt until he could drag his fingers across the overheated skin between Merlin’s hips. “Of course,” he added, because he was a cruel, cruel man and one of these days, Merlin really was going to strangle him while he slept, “they might be able to hear us if we’re not very, very careful. I hope that isn’t going to be a problem.”

Merlin reached out, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Arthur’s white shirt, and yanked him close. “Hmm,” he murmured, arching an eyebrow, “I can see where that might be a problem for you.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed at the challenge, but Merlin distracted him with a thoroughly filthy kiss.

“I am not the loud one here,” Arthur managed when they came up for air, looking dazed, his lips dark and swollen and utterly distracting, but he made a funny, strangled sort of noise as Merlin finished untying his cravat and laid hot, wet kisses down his throat, intent on proving Arthur wrong.

“Doesn’t sound like that to me,” Merlin said as he moved down to unbutton Arthur’s shirt, scrape his teeth against the pale skin of Arthur’s collarbone, stopping now and then to admire the marks he left, soothe their redness with his tongue.

“You’re not playing fair,” Arthur accused, breathless, and then – _oh_ , Arthur was the one playing dirty, his hand slipping further down into Merlin’s pants and curling his hand lightly around Merlin’s erection, giving it a slow stroke, not nearly enough. Merlin couldn’t quite keep his hips from jerking forward, barely managed to cover up his gasp by kissing Arthur again and attacking his shirt and waistcoat with renewed determination, moving over each new inch of exposed skin with single-minded attention. Arthur retaliated by reaching lower, his fingers a teasing, too-light caress against Merlin’s balls before he moved them up again, swiping his thumb across the damp head of Merlin’s cock, ignoring Merlin’s silent, arching plea for _more_.

Arthur sucked in a breath when Merlin gave up on the buttons and just ripped, frustrated, wanting, needing to see Arthur undone; high on alcohol and nerves and the knowledge that anyone might pull aside the curtain and see them there, messy and undone and criminally unfit for good society.

“Christ,” Arthur swore when Merlin mouthed at his nipple, rolling his tongue around it, tugging at it gently with his teeth until it hardened. “ _Merlin_.” Merlin felt his cock twitch at the plea in Arthur’s voice, was about to switch to the other nipple when Arthur shifted, grabbing his shoulders, and suddenly he was on the floor, Arthur pressed deliciously against him.

“Damn your tricks,” Merlin complained, and had to stifle a whimper when Arthur rolled his hips once, deliberate, torturously slow.

“You shouldn’t have quit football,” Arthur said, thrusting again. Merlin clamped his lips together against the moan that threatened to burst free and reached back to clutch at Arthur’s arse, arching his hips up to grind against Arthur.

Arthur groaned, retaliated by sliding down Merlin’s body to gust a hot breath against Merlin’s cock, and suddenly Merlin didn’t care any more, didn’t care if Arthur won whatever game they were playing or if every single person in London saw them. He threw an arm over his eyes, twisted his fingers into the thick carpet as Arthur sucked the tip into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , yes, Arthur.” He couldn’t stop the words spilling out, couldn’t stop the plea creeping into his tone; Arthur’s tongue was hot and wicked, his hands dug into Merlin’s thighs, holding Merlin to the carpet as Merlin tried to thrust up fruitlessly, tried to push his way further into that wet heat.

“I’m going to take you apart,” Arthur said, pulling off, and Merlin was going to _kill_ him except Arthur had always been a fucking tease, he should have known better, should have known this would never be easy, not with Arthur’s hand curling down around Merlin’s balls again. “I’m going to make you scream.”

The tip of Arthur’s finger dragged along the skin behind Merlin’s balls and Merlin bit back a yell to wheeze, “Bet you can’t,” and the look on Arthur’s face was worth it, worth whatever price Arthur chose to exact. 

Arthur gave him no time to enjoy his small triumph, swallowing him back down, and Merlin lost himself again as Arthur swirled his tongue around the head before taking him deeper, his fingers stroking relentlessly back toward Merlin’s hole. Merlin reached blindly down, digging his nails into Arthur’s shoulder, urging him on.

Preoccupied with the things Arthur was busily doing with his tongue and the soft, obscene sounds he was making, Merlin barely noticed when Arthur slid a wet finger inside him until Arthur crooked his finger expertly. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Merlin choked out, and bit down on the back of his hand before he could babble anything else, his breath heaving in his chest, Arthur in him, over him, stroking deep inside him and setting every nerve he had on fire. “Arthur,” he gasped, but before he could do anything, warn Arthur or push him away, he was coming, his body bowing up as he spilled himself inside Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur pulled off before Merlin was finished, ignoring the come that splattered across his face and down his chest as he surged upwards, pulling Merlin’s hand away from his mouth to kiss him. Merlin, still dazed, disoriented with bliss, stretched his free hand up in wonder, dragging it through the thick stripe of his own come on Arthur’s cheek.

“You’re filthy,” he said, marvelling, and Arthur gave a soft moan, bracing his hands on either side of Merlin’s head and rocking forward.

“Yes,” he gasped, “filthy from you, just for you; Merlin, _please_...”

Merlin understood, reached down to run a hand through the come on Arthur’s chest, smear it deeper into his skin, marking him, before moving further down to tear at Arthur’s trousers, suddenly desperate to get inside, to wrap his fingers around the searing heat of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur hissed out a breath at Merlin’s touch, pumping his hips faster, frantic now, and Merlin watched his face, his skull buzzing from the sight of Arthur falling apart above him. The world was quiet, gone, the theatre empty except for the slick slide of skin and Arthur’s breathless groans, a stream of _yes, God, right there, Merlin, Merlin_...

He came in a stutter of hips and a muffled whine, his face pressed hard against Merlin’s shoulder, and they lay there for a minute, feeling each other breathe as the world came trickling back into their box. The orchestra was playing at a furious rate, the tenor bellowing, and Merlin couldn’t help but laugh softly, helplessly, at the utter absurdity of it all.

“What?” Arthur asked, finally rolling off to the side and propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re laughing. Why are you laughing?”

“Didn’t scream,” Merlin commented, smug, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur just grinned. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “That was only Act One.”


End file.
